


Port In A Storm

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre Series 7, Stormy Weather, The weather ships them!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3210455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Firstly, thank you so much to divingforstones for such helpful and encouraging (and speedy!) beta services!</p><p>The story is set in Lyme Regis, a small seaside town on the south coast of England. The seawall at Lyme Regis is known as the Cobb, and is referred to in the story. Coincidently, the Cobb features heavily in The French Lieutenant's Woman, which was set in Lyme. </p><p>At the end of the fic there are a couple of photos, relevant to the fic, but you might want to read before you view, because the second photo is a bit spoilery.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Port In A Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperscribe/gifts).



> Firstly, thank you so much to divingforstones for such helpful and encouraging (and speedy!) beta services!
> 
> The story is set in Lyme Regis, a small seaside town on the south coast of England. The seawall at Lyme Regis is known as the Cobb, and is referred to in the story. Coincidently, the Cobb features heavily in The French Lieutenant's Woman, which was set in Lyme. 
> 
> At the end of the fic there are a couple of photos, relevant to the fic, but you might want to read before you view, because the second photo is a bit spoilery.

“Why the hell did I let you talk me into this, Hathaway?!” 

He’s shouting his complaint at his sergeant’s back, but the roar of the wind and the tide is so loud, he doubts James can even hear him. Robbie’s not happy. He’s soaked with sea spray already, and he doesn’t like the look of the churning waves, one bit. They were only meant to be stopping for a quick bite on the way back from an interview with a person of interest in Exeter: James had wanted to see the sea. It had been James’ idea to walk off their pub lunch. Specifically, it had been James’ sodding idea to get up onto the Cobb and “have a proper look at the storm,” rather than stick to the relative calm and safety of the promenade. _Bloody idiot._

But then his sergeant turns to face him. James’ hair—which he’s recently allowed to grow out beyond its usual austere crop (a development which has affected Robbie rather more than the grooming choices of his sergeant really ought)—is all over the place; his cheeks are pink . . . and he looks utterly happy; like he’s revelling in every slap of wind and spray. Faced with that sight, how can Robbie do anything other than smile at him indulgently and accept that he’s doomed to spend the rest of the afternoon in a cold, damp suit?

A moment later though, Robbie feels the wave thunder ominously against the seaward side of the Cobb, and immediately the spray is rearing up behind James; twenty foot, thirty foot in the air. Then, as if in slow motion—but actually far too fast for Robbie to do anything but stare—it crashes down on both of them; shoving James towards him, and soaking them both as thoroughly as if they’d taken complete leave of their senses and decided to go for a dip in the brine. 

He braces himself as James stumbles into him, and manages to keep them both upright. They cling to each other while the storm does its worst around them—the two of them much stronger together than they ever could be, separately. Even in this tight embrace, he has to shout to make himself heard. “You all right, James?!”

James bows his head to reply, and Robbie can feel the warmth of his sergeant’s breath against his ear. “Define all right, sir!” 

_Oh, for God’s sake._ “Don’t start, you! It’s your bloody fault I’m cold and wet and me best suit needs putting through a mangle!”

He feels James laugh; feels the rumble of it in the press of their chests together. It’s as thrilling as a stormy sea . . . and just as dangerous. Dangerous, because in the thirty seconds or so he’s been holding on tight to James, a startling truth has come sharply, painfully, into focus. Robbie can now clearly see just how easily he could drown—lost at sea in his sergeant’s arms. He’s already struggling against the tide.

“Sorry, sir!” 

The contrary sod doesn’t sound particularly sorry. In fact he sounds remarkably happy about the whole bloody situation. For a moment, a flare of hope shoots up through Robbie’s chest; hope that James’ happiness is not just to do with the wild weather and the sea. Hope that perhaps one tiny slither of James’ joy might be because his old, grumpy governor is clinging onto him like a shipwreck survivor to a life raft. But no. James loosens his hold on Robbie and steps out of his embrace; so that’s it. He’s back to being a cold, miserable bloke in a ruined suit.

“Sir?” James sounds different—like there’s something going on with him too; though Robbie doesn’t have an idea what. Bloody mystery wrapped in a smartarse, that one. Always has been.

“What?” All of a sudden, Robbie feels fed up, and very cold. 

“There was a hotel. On the promenade.”

“So?” 

“It looked quite nice.”

“Well, I’ll be sure to remember it when I’m booking me summer holiday, Sergeant.”

James shakes his head. “I was thinking more . . . now. They might have a room.”

 _What?_ “You’ve lost me, Hathaway.”

Interestingly, James looks away, studying the racing waves. “I meant . . . we could . . . dry off; get warm. Or maybe . . . a hot bath . . . I don’t know.” He’s frowning and noticeably not looking at Robbie, and he’s jiggling with nervous energy.

Robbie’s heart starts kicking up a fuss in his chest, but he knows James doesn’t mean it the way it sounds. He’s certain of that. Well. 99% certain. Stupid bloody heart. He hasn’t a clue what to say. All he can do is fall back on an old interview technique—repeating back what he’s just heard. James, of course, will instantly know that he’s floundering for some reason, but it can’t be helped—his brain just won’t supply anything intelligent to say right now. “A room, James? You think we should get a room? For the night?”

James shoots him the oddest look—not one that Robbie can interpret, but which, even as he’s watching, is transformed into a smirk. “No, sir. We should see if they rent them out by the hour.”

 _Christ!_ Robbie can feel the heat flood into his face. He does his best: “I’m not sure it was that kind of place. Frequenter of dodgy hotels during the day, are you?”

James chuckles, but then his smirk fades, replaced with a soft, almost wistful smile. “Yes, of course a room for the night.” And suddenly, Robbie’s not certain of anything. 

“James?” 

James shrugs. “It’s Friday. The traffic back to Oxford will be awful anyway. I just thought maybe we could . . . but if you don’t want . . . shit. Sorry.” He looks horrified, which is all wrong, because Robbie _does_ want—he really does; so he’s got to try and sort this out—even if it turns out in the end that what James wants and what he wants are not the same thing at all.

“No, no; I think you might be onto something there, James. You’re right about the traffic . . . and the weather isn’t going to make it any better. Wouldn’t do any harm just to have a closer look at the place, would it?” And he turns and starts walking back along the Cobb, towards the cluster of shops and pubs on the edge of the beach, willing James to fall into step beside him . . . which, thank God—after a moment’s hesitation—he does. James has his face turned away, looking out to sea, but the cheek Robbie can see is blazing, and he’s pretty sure it’s a smile James is trying to keep to himself, rather than a frown. 

They get to the hotel and James is right—it does look nice; old and solid and inviting. There’s a small glazed porch with an outer wooden door. A sign saying “vacancies” is propped up against one of the porch windows. They step into the porch, out of the driving wind, and James closes the door behind them. Suddenly, it’s quiet enough that Robbie can hear himself breathe: short, shallow drags of air, which he tries to convince himself are down to the storm outside, rather than the turbulent weather in his own chest. Either way, now they’re here in this little shelter, at the threshold of the hotel, he doesn’t seem to be able to move one foot in front of the other.

“Sir, shall I go in and enquire?”

 _Thank God for that._ “Aye, if you like.”

But James seems stuck too. He’s just standing there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He glances at Robbie out of the corner of his eye, opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“James?”

More fidgeting, then finally: “Just to be clear. Am I asking for one room or two?”

 _One! One room. One bed._ But he can’t say it; he just can’t. He’s the governor—it has to come from James first. In all their years interviewing devious suspects, he’s never wished that James could read his mind more than he wishes it right now, standing together in this little porch, with the wind rattling the panes of glass, and their suits shedding drops of saltwater onto the stone flag floor. “What do you think, James?”

James nods. “Well, I never see the point of spending money unnecessarily. If one room will suffice, then I think that’s what we should get.” 

Robbie couldn’t keep the smile of relief off his face if he tried. “Admirable attitude, that. One room it is. I want a decent breakfast thrown in, mind. None of that continental nonsense. I’m not eating muesli—or cheese for breakfast.”

James smiles back at him, clearly amused. “No muesli. I’ll make a point of mentioning it, sir.” And with that he heads into the hotel in search of the reception desk. 

He’s only gone a couple of minutes, but it’s long enough for Robbie to ponder this strange, amazing turn of events; and to start regretting not going in with James. It seems unfair, somehow, to leave it to James to make the arrangements on his own—and not really like Robbie. And it’s absurd that Robbie’s skulking here, nervously waiting in the porch. It’s not even like it’s the first time he’s booked into a hotel for a bit of a . . . jolly. Him and Val had had a few good times in hotels when the kids were a bit older and could be left with a babysitter overnight. He smiles at the memories. Just because James is a man, it's no different. When he’d held him in his arms on the Cobb, it hadn’t felt different. And if they do get a room, he thinks he’s going to want to kiss and cuddle James—no different. _Right, yer daft sod: get on with it._ As he opens the inner door to go in, James reappears, smiling shyly.

Robbie rests his hand on James’ arm; the suit fabric feels damp and cold to his touch. “I was just coming in to find you. How did you get on?”

James produces a key from his trouser pocket and holds it up proudly by the plastic key fob attached, like he’s caught a prize fish. “The good news is we’ve got a room—the last one left.” He looks almost pained as he prepares to share the next bit of news. “The bad news is . . . I’m afraid I have to report that it has hand-painted floral wallpaper . . . and a stencilled bathroom, whatever that is. The bed isn’t particularly big apparently, and it’s a four-poster. To make up for the size of the bed, however, there’s a bath large enough to accommodate a five-a-side football team”—he raises an eyebrow at Robbie—“according to the woman on reception.”

Robbie snorts. “I see. Maybe it _is_ that kind of hotel then.” He’s making a joke of it, but to be honest, it all feels a bit full on: four-poster bed; bath the size of a swimming pool. It’s a bit over the top; a bit . . . honeymoon.

James is watching him carefully. “I suppose it doesn’t sound particularly _manly_ , does it, sir; football team, not withstanding?” 

They share a wry smile. “No; not especially.”

“Would it help to know that I ordered us a couple of bottles of beer? I was offered rosé champagne, obviously.”

 _Jesus._ “Of course you were.”

“But I was afraid we might encounter more than enough rosé in the room décor. I’m expecting a lot of taste, and none of it good.” 

Robbie has to laugh. He feels the tightness in his stomach—that he hadn’t even been fully aware of—soften and fade. Even if the room’s done out like a wedding planner’s wet dream, they’ll be able to laugh about it now. In fact he’ll take great delight, he’s sure, in hearing James take the over-educated, precisely enunciated piss out of it. “Excellent show of initiative, Sergeant.”

James grins. “Thank you, sir. Hoping you might mention it in my next six-monthly appraisal.”

“Maybe I will.” He gives James a gentle push into the hotel. “Come on. Let's brave it, shall we?”

So, they make their way up the stairs and find the room. James puts the key in the lock and opens the door, stepping aside to let Robbie go in first. _Wow._ He looks round, taking it all in. Well, it _is_ romantic, no doubt about it. But, actually, even this distinctly unromantic old copper has to admit—he likes it: it’s a handsome room. There’s not a bit of pink or chintz in sight, or pictures of hand-holding bears in bride and groom outfits or any of the other horrors his imagination had supplied as they’d dithered in the porch. The walls are deep red and gold, and scattered with seascapes. The bed is dark wood and has a Tudor look to it; solid and comfortable-looking, and beautifully carved. The place positively glows, and Robbie can feel his spirits lift just being there, knowing that this lovely, cosy, cave of a room is home for him and James until tomorrow.

He goes over to the window. They’ve got a view out over the promenade, to the pebble beach. The waves are still capped with white horses, rearing up and racing towards the shore. The glass feels cold under his fingertips; such a contrast to the room itself.

James comes to stand next to him and they watch the storm. The wind is buffeting the building, and the waves are hurling stones up the beach with incredible power. It’s amazing to see, but really not an afternoon to be out and about. He nudges James’ shoulder with his own. “Looks like we’re in the best place.” He doesn’t move his shoulder away.

“Definitely.” James’ hand brushes against his, and Robbie’s breath hitches. He catches a couple of James’ fingers in his and squeezes gently. James squeezes back and all Robbie can think is _I’m a bloody lucky sod._ And it doesn’t feel fair somehow to think it and not say it—so he does say it. 

James turns to him, smiling shyly. “Yeah?”

Well, he can’t stop smiling, himself. “Yeah.” He feels James’ arm slide round his back, and he leans into the embrace.

“Yuck!”

 _What?! That definitely wasn’t the reaction he was hoping for!_ “James?”

“Sorry. It’s just that your jacket is very wet. It really does feel unpleasant.” And James tilts his head down to sniff the shoulder nearest to him. “And you’re starting to smell a bit sheepy.” 

_Charming!_ “If this is your idea of romance, God help us!”

James makes an amused sound. “Would it help if I recite sonnets to you while you’re soaking in the capacious bath?”

“Sonnets, as in Shakespeare?”

“The very same.”

“Probably not.”

“Philistine!”

“Romance, not insults, James!”

“You don’t make it easy, sir, I must say.” James goes quiet; his expression suddenly the Hathaway well-practiced blank. 

_Bloody hell._ _If Robbie’s cocked things up, trying to be funny._ “I want you to know, my objection was to the sonnets, not the offer of the capacious bath.”

James nods and thank God—there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Understood.” When he speaks again, it’s not much more than a whisper: “Would it help if I said I’ll run you a hot bath and help you out of your damp clothes?” He looks hesitant, like he’s not sure whether he’s gone too far. 

Robbie gently pulls him into his arms and kisses him on the cheek, and they stand, smiling at each other. “Aye. I like the sound of that a lot more. Just one question though: what’ll you be doing while I’m soaking in the bath?”

James raises an eyebrow. “Well, not reciting sonnets, apparently.”

“Smartarse.” Robbie brushes his lips against James’, and James gasps and pulls him in close. And then James is kissing him again and again; firm, thrilling presses of his lips, that have Robbie’s heart racing like white horses tearing towards the shore; like storm waves pounding against a seawall. Earlier, out on the Cobb, he’d felt like a drowning man, overwhelmed by the tide of need and care for James, washing away his defences. But now, standing here, held in James’ strong embrace, he knows he’s safely home; knows that James is—as in fact he always has been—a port for him in any storm. 

The kiss ends and they lean—forehead-to-forehead—catching their breath. Robbie’s heart rate settles down a little, though he doubts that’ll last. In fact he doesn’t want it to last: life shouldn’t always be flat seas and light breezes. Well, there’s definitely something he can do about that. He kisses the hair just above James’ ear; it’s damp against his lips. He runs his tongue along the skin just below the hairline; warm; soft; briny. He thinks about how much of James he’s never seen or touched; how much of him there is to kiss and taste. He whispers, “I have it on good authority that the bath’s far too big for one person.”

James breathes in sharply, and when he answers, it’s obvious he’s trying to sound casual, and not quite managing. “Well, sharing would conserve water. How very ecologically-minded of you, sir.”

They go into the bathroom, which has shoals of silver and pewter stencilled fish darting across the sea green walls. The bath is long and deep and is going to be glorious, if they ever manage to actually fill it. There’s a knock at the door, so Robbie leaves James adjusting the taps, while he takes delivery of the beers. He has one last look at the storm, out of the bedroom window, before he draws the curtains. The light’s starting to fade now, but he can still see waves breaking over the Cobb. He looks out across the bay. He can’t see any fishing boats out there; hopes they’ve all found a safe haven in the storm. He knows he has.


End file.
